Laidley Plackett

Bright Lights, No City is a project dedicated to documenting the stories of LGBTQIA+ youth from country WA. We thank Community Arts Network for funding this project.

The Centre for Stories collected a number of written and oral stories. Each participant's story has been thoughtfully crafted with the help of Oral Storytelling Trainer, Sisonke Msimang, and Writing Expert, Susan Midalia. This project was funded by Community Arts Network (CAN). CAN manages the Catalyst Community Arts fund on behalf of the State of Western Australia through the Department of Local Government, Sport and Cultural Industries.

In this story, Laidley Plackett worked alongside Susan Midalia to craft and perfect, 'Good Intentions,' a story reflecting on Laidley's experiences.

About Laidley: My name is Laidley Plackett. I’m a regional manager for a retail conglomerate and spend all week mitigating issues with some 250 plus staff and pining after a Friday night G&T. I grew up in Kalgoorlie-Boulder—a mining town in the middle of Bum Fuck, Idaho. I now reside in the ghetto, colloquially known as “south of the river”, with a sensible housemate and a fridge stocked full of Corona. Growing up bisexual in a small country town was a cake walk compared to dealing with the fame of winning the Humphrey’s Dance School Salsa competition in 2008. After a journey of self-discovery, I have decided to dust the red dirt off my memories and share a few of them.

Laidley's story is a written story. You can listen to a recording of the story, or scroll down below to read the full written story.

'Good intentions' by Laidley Plackett

Are you sure? The words lingered in my mind for a moment longer than they should have. I felt my smile subside and blood rush to my cheeks. She was going to think I was lying. The silence was deafening as my eyes darted around the room, desperate to lock eyes with my peers, but hoping to avoid them all together.

The coach kept calling out names of the tee ball tryout aspirants, but I was losing hope of making the team. I was only from Kalgoorlie, of course I wasn’t good enough to compete in Perth at state level. The echoing of names ended, ironically, at the same time as the sun had begun to set over the playing fields. I looked around, a group of eleven-year-olds, all standing next to their mums. I was standing next to nobody. I was eleven, why did I need my mum to be by my side? Although, at that very moment, after I hadn’t heard my name called out, I longed to have her presence beside me. The crowd started to disperse and mums led their kids back to four wheel drives in the car park. I slowly started to walk towards the coach, trying to garner his attention. Softly, uncertainly, I told the coach that I hadn’t heard my name called out – Laidley Plackett.

“Ah shit mate, we had ya down as something different. Yeah, you’ve made the team. I’ll see ya next week at training, young fella.”

A sense of belonging flowed through me. I WAS good enough. I did this on my own. I fit in. Laidley.

Fast forward three years. My best mate at school was a girl. My oldest childhood friend was a girl. I didn’t play footy on the weekends or go out motorbike riding on the holidays. I wasn’t one of the boys. I had a best mate once, Jackson. We hung out every weekend and after school, riding push bikes around the streets of Boulder, throwing boondies at the cars driving by, talking about the hot girl at school, Maddison, who he’d had a crush on since kindy. Our friendship drifted apart once we got to high school. It had run its course. I wasn’t interested in doing the same old shit all the time. I never understood why the guys always wanted to talk about how big girls tits were or how good of a root they thought a girl would be. What was the fascination? I could stare at the red dirt all day and scout my brain for an answer. I had no fucking idea. I wondered if I’d start to understand, once puberty had run its course. It would take me another three years to figure out who I was.

Fast forward another three years. The sound of small chatter, undercut by the incessant clicking of the keyboards filled the small room. A group of year 11 public school media students attempting to make a short three-minute film and we all thought we were Steven Spielberg. At this stage of the project our films looked more like an illegal cinema recording than a blockbuster film, but we were hoping, with the guidance of our quirky media teacher, we’d make them just as damn good. As the teacher made her way around the room, stopping at each pair of students editing their footage, she pointed and made her sharp command very clear: “codes plus conventions plus audience plus meaning”. She had a thunderous laugh as well – one that could be heard by not just our class, but the wild goats in Kambalda. It was my turn now, to have my footage picked apart. I felt so fiercely protective of the footage I’d been slaving away over for six weeks. After the barrage of tips and tricks and things I could do better, my project partner and I discussed the changes we could make. I felt the teacher’s presence lingering behind me. I thought she was moving on to speak with the next group.

“Are you gay, or what?”

I swung my chair around, only to be greeted by the eager stare of my teacher, awaiting my response. It took a couple of seconds to sink in. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand the question, I was shocked that my teacher had asked me in front of my peers. My mates. It took another couple of seconds for me to string a one-word answer together.

One word is all I could manage to say.

“No.”

The piercing laughter of my mate next to me filled the room. She looked shocked, but all she could do was laugh. Did she think I was gay too? Did all of my classmates think I was gay? Had everyone just heard her? WHAT THE FUCK? An explosion of thoughts went through my mind in a split second.

“Are you sure?”

The teacher’s retort was confident and bold. She had obviously boxed me in. But I knew who I was. And by this stage of my teenage years I felt the sweeping realms of desire, which neither gay nor straight could explain. Both of those terms felt dishonest.

It was only five years later, when I began to write this story, that I understood the teacher’s good intentions. Her wanting to help.

We wish to acknowledge the traditional custodians of the land the Centre for Stories is located on, the Whadjuk people. We respect their culture and the continuing contribution they make to the life of this city and this region.